


Four ways Jim Kirk tried to kill himself (and one way he did)

by viggorlijah



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, Incest, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Tarsus IV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-26
Updated: 2004-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 05:43:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viggorlijah/pseuds/viggorlijah





	Four ways Jim Kirk tried to kill himself (and one way he did)

**1\. The car**

When the roof tore off, the wind roared past him and drowned out everything in his head. _Everything_. It was amazing, the rush of noise and the heat of the steering wheel under his hands, the glimmer of road he could see ahead. He screams and hits the pedal even harder.

"Citizen. Pull over," says the cop and Kirk spins the wheel hard to the right. The car jolts, and he thinks the engine must be shredded now, every polished gleaming handmade replica fucked up. He thinks about crashing, burning and the roar of the hoverbike, the throb of the car engine, the wind - it's perfect.

Burn, he thinks, and he heads straight down to the canyon.

The car will arc off the road, gathering speed and the impact will ignite the flammable fuel in the old combustion engines and the flames, Kirk thinks viciously, proudly (he has filled the trunk with extra cans of fuel and a duffel bag of clothes and stolen credit chips) will scorch the rocks, leave a charred heap at the bottom. Hot enough to kill him fast and quick, leave nothing but ash in the wind.

The canyon rushes towards him and James Tiberius Kirk has five seconds left in his life. Four. Three.

He knows the speed the car will reach on descent, the estimated temperature the fireball will reach, the procedure of next-of-kin notification, the sound of his mother's voice on the last holovid she left for him, and he imagines - Kirk wants to stop thinking, wants to go faster, faster until he can't _think_ anymore.

Two seconds. His hands move faster and he pushes up, and it's almost worth it not going down with the car, not falling at that unbelievable beautiful speed to fire and heat and nothing. Instead he pushes and it's almost worth it for the moment where he's flying, weightless in the air.

 _I have slipped the surly bonds_ , his mind whispers and then he stops thinking, stops calculating, because he slams into the rockface and is scrambling for contact, shredding his hands and knocking the breath out of him.

He pulls himself up and hears the car smash, the explosion. He breathes and it's this, the first deep breath into bruised ribs and adrenaline crashing in sweet shaky shocks, that makes Kirk almost not mind being alive.

 **2\. Tarsus IV**

A fresh start, they said. Green fields, purple sky, plenty of space for an angry boy to run around and not much trouble he can get into. The Federation was only too glad to trade a pilot contract from Winona Kirk for an apprentice post in agriculture and a child's placement.

She waited a couple of weeks before she took the next flight out, stayed long enough for Jim to turn twelve. It was just her and Sam, in the shitty capsule housing. Jim hadn't made any friends in class because they were all colonial losers, and Sam's friends were losers too, so it's not like Jim minded being on the ass-end of nowhere for his birthday.

Sam had gotten enough replicant rations for a cake, and Winona had got him a new holovid on deep-space exploration so Jim waited until he had had a slice of cake before he made her slap him. Not that it hurt because his mother was half-drunk and sloppy with her fists, but Sam was there interfering anyway, so Jim slammed the door and ran.

Tarsus IV's sky was bruised plums and a thousand million stars, the atmosphere so clear they barely twinkled. Nothing above but the depth of sky and the grass under his feet, crunching with frost as he ran.

Sam wouldn't make him breakfast when he turned up the next day. His mother was gone, and Sam didn't speak to him for a couple of days, not till Jim came back with a split cheek and sat quietly on the doorstop while Sam fixed it up.

He spread the cream gently over the cut, his thumb pressing down until the sting eased. "You need a haircut, Jim," he said softly, brushing the bangs out of his face. "Kids still bothering you?"

"They're fuckers," muttered Jim.

"They all are," agreed Sam. He kissed his temple, and stretched. Jim watched, admiringly. His brother was over six feet tall now, with broad shoulders and a spill of golden curls pulled back loosely from his sunburnt face. "You heard Kodos' latest idea? Wants us to double our Rigallian weed plantings."

Jim shaded his eyes. "You gonna go on another planting trip?"

"Three weeks out. You think you can catch up with school?"

"Yeah," he said. "Whatever."

"Good kid," said Sam and ruffled his hair as he stepped by, back into the trailer.

Jim leaned back against the solarised panels and let their warmth seep into him, let himself fall asleep. Winona was gone, three weeks off school and what the hell. He was twelve years old, an adult in the colony now. He could have a nap.

(When he thinks of Sam now, his memories are tactile. If he looks at his mother, he can see Sam in the colour of her hair, the tilt of her nose, but he doesn't look at his mother anymore. He remembers the way Sam would lift him up in a bearhug, swing him about. He remembers the sharp rise and fall of Sam's ribs under his hands after the first fights, the way Sam's hand stretched to cover his eyes, to turn his gaze away from the burnpits.)

Kodos is kind and patient to the stranded children in his care. They camp out inside City Hall, careful never to venture out, to spread the contagion they all carry. Kodos has found medicine that alleviates the worst of it, but still some of the children die.

He shows Jim how to operate the replicators. Sometimes, when Jim is shaking too much from hunger or the disease, Kodos gives him extra pills. "You are saving lives," he tells Jim, his face grave with responsibility. "The future of the colony depends on you, Kirk."

Jim thinks about Sam harvesting the last of the unspoilt grain, about all the people outside City Hall who need them to be brave, to do their duty. They should, if they were really brave, go somewhere and die, he thinks, but he's not brave enough. Not yet. There might be a cure, and then the children can go home again.

Sam is safer outside. He can find food in the wilds, add on to the meagre supplies Jim manages to beam out. He writes a note to his brother, tucks it inside. _Sam, I'm alright. Don't worry about us. Kodos is taking care of us and we've sent a distress beacon to Starfleet. Tell Mom I'm sorry._

That night, Kodos gives him a jar of peaches, from the same batch that he sent to Sam, a jar kept back to cheer the children up. "Share them," Kodos says. "We must be brave for our families outside. Starfleet will come."

  
When they open the doors at last and bring the survivors of City Hall out, they can't walk that far unaided. An officer picks him up, and Jim tries to breathe in the smell of his uniform, of space and Starfleet, not burning flesh. Everything smells of burning.

They carry the children down the steps of City Hall, and Kirk lifts his head up. "Where's my brother?" he asks. "Samuel William Kirk. My brother."

The man's stride falters for a moment and Jim takes a long shuddering breath. "Oh," he says softly.

  
His mother isn't on the rescue ship. He applies for legal emancipation, and a Tellerian officer in the dull green of administrative signs off on it.

"My brother's things," he says. "I want them."

The Tellerite doesn't bother looking at him, just scrunches his nose and clacks his claws on the screen. "Denied under criminal confiscation code, Starfleet regulation sixty-point-seven."

"Explain." Jim's feet touch the ground in the small chairs the Tellerites prefer. He's taller than the Tellerite. "Explain," he demands.

"Based on Tarsus IV survivor reports, your brother executed at least thirty-seven individuals and assisted in the deaths of another four hundred. He was terminated by survivors prior to Starfleet's arrival, and his estate has been confiscated to be determined for later redistribution to victims. You may apply for victim status if you wish."

"No," says Jim. He pulls the datapadd over and scrolls through the reports while the Tellerite sits back, hands clasped over its belly. It doesn't say anything, and Jim is grateful, later. At the time though, he just puts the datapadd down and leaves.

He stops eating. It takes a while, because they're monitoring the children closely. But Jim has always been good with sleight of hand. Rations vanish, and he knows how to hack medical records. He tells them he's cold, gets another coat, another jacket that hangs too big on his frame.

"Will you stay on Tarsus IV?" asks the Tellerite when Jim wakes up again, back in the sickbay. "I ask because the paperwork is extensive and I would rather complete it before you die." Its nose droops and a clawed hand rests gently on his upper arm. "I have written many death certificates this month. No more please."

"I want to go home," he says when he's finished crying.

The Tellerite scrunches its nose, clacks its claws and digs up a boarding school in Riverside, Iowa that's willing to take an orphan from Tarsus IV on a full scholarship. It takes another month before the medical officers are willing to let Jim out of their sight, but when Jim goes to the shuttle that will take him off the ship to the base and then another six jumps back to Earth, the Tellerite is at the shuttlebay.

"Your brother listed as missing. Records sealed, Starfleet orders." It snuffles and holds out a small box. "Chocolate, human style. High caloric content."

"You don't talk much for a Tellerite, do you?" says Jim. He shoves the box in his pocket and scuffs the floor, looking over the Tellerite's head.

"No point. Paperwork's bad enough without arguing," it says and grins. "You don't eat much for a human."

Jim hesitates, then bends down and hugs the Tellerite. Its claws tap against the back of Jim's head, then settle for a moment before releasing him.

"I'll eat," he promises it. "I'll be okay."

"Hmph," says the Tellerite.

(Years later, when Bones and Rand are harassing him about skipping meals, Jim tells them to bring him a bagged lunch. "Make sure there's chocolate in it," he says absently. "High caloric content." His eyes prickle suddenly, and he has to stop for a moment to breathe. No-one else notices, so he shakes it off.)

 **3\. San Francisco**

He's working at a bar nights, sleeping in a shiftroom during the day. It's cheap and it's not like he gives a fuck because he's drunk pretty much all the time. Drunk or high or getting fucked.

It's the week before Starfleet Academy finals. His pants got lost a while back, and his tips went up, so when an Andorian buries her face against his briefs, tickling his thighs with her antennae and begs, begs so politely - the Starfleet cadets are easy to pick out, even if they're dressed in civvies, they remember their manners - that he shrugs and lets her suck him off against the bar counter.

"Jimmy," someone says in his ear and he turns, smiling loose and easy, still shivering with the aftershocks of his orgasm. It's his mother.

She's shipping out tomorrow. Nine years out, five years there, nine years back. Terraforming and deep space exploration, Lieutenent Kirk at the helm.

He buys her a beer.

"Do you have plans, Jimmy?" she asks. "Beyond this?" She tilts her bottle at the bar behind. It's not really an orgy; you need a public performance permit for that, and the owner is too lazy to apply, but the booth walls are transparent and no-one comes here for a quiet drink.

She looks at him long and level. He looks back, unflinchingly. He knows who he looks like, why he's in San Francisco. He keeps his hair short, keeps the bruises people leave on his face, and now, he settles back in the chair and runs his tongue round the rim of the glass, knocks the shot back and slams it down on the table.

He can think of plenty things to say, but settles on "No."

He can almost see the names she's about to say, the people who aren't here because he is. But then she shrugs and drains the bottle instead, looks at him through her lashes and says "You got anything better to drink?"

They wind up in her hotel room with a bottle of Suarian brandy. They don't talk, just drink. At the end of the bottle, Winona goes into the bathroom and tosses him a robe. "Room's booked till noon," she says.

He can still stand on his feet, so he staggers upright. Winona's barely weaving on her feet either. She's in her uniform, but her hair has come loose, thick dark golden curls over her shoulders. She reaches up and unzips the jacket, pulls it off. She steps out of the pants. Unsnaps her bra, drags her briefs down her legs.

Her body's changed from what he remembers, years ago on Tarsus IV. A scar running down her flank, rounded thighs, and when she steps closer to him, strands of grey in her hair, fragile lines on her face.

He lets her push his shirt off, slide down the briefs, still sticky from the Andorian, lets her take his hand and lead him to the bed.

"Go to sleep, Jimmy" she whispers. Her breath is brandy-sweet and he curls up against and around her. He kisses the pulse in her throat, tongues against it until it speeds up and she sighs softly and runs her hands over his back comfortingly. He licks down her breasts to her nipple and sucks, settles his head against their warm weight and she wraps him closer and closer until he sleeps.

The room has been paid for, the receptionist tells him when he leaves at noon. The other guest left early this morning. No messages. Did he need a shuttle pass?

He goes back to the bar, mixes up what he knows will work.

It doesn't.

When he's conscious again, he signs out of the hospital, jacks a day's takings from the bar and leaves San Francisco.

He will never fucking return, he swears.

  
 **4\. U.S.S. Enterprise**

They give him a knife and a stone. "There are three," the priestess intones. "One by blade, one by stone and one by hand."

It's almost definitely the drugs they've been feeding him during the last month of imprisonment, but for a while, crouching in the hall in front of his bridge crew, he is deeply troubled.

It's one of those logic puzzles, like the goat and the fox on the shuttle, or the Orion slave girl who has to choose between the Klingon and the Romulan. He's good at those, he thinks. This should be easy.

Bones should get the blade because he's a doctor and they use knives. Stone for Spock because they both start with the S phonome. And by hand because Uhura is delicate. Except Spock tried to strangle him, so maybe he should strangle Spock, and Uhura doesn't like knives, so she should get the stone and then he can slit Bones' throat. That makes more sense.

He puts the knife down in front of the pole Bones is tied to. The man's saying something, over and over and Jim cocks his head to the side, listening. He sounds like a bird, cawing and screeching and his face is flushed, his stubble grown in and Kirk pats him absently before he goes over to the pole Uhura is tied to. He puts the stone down and pats her feet too. Her voice is pitched higher and sharper and she gets louder when he touches her so he stops.

Hands first. He's not sure why but that's important. Get his hands dirty, that's what matters, the Councillor had said when they arrived. They need to get their hands dirty.

Spock stands upright against the pole. His uniform is slightly crumpled. "Captain," he says and Kirk smiles in delight. His name, he remembers!

"Spock," says Kirk affectionately, and he puts his hands at Spock's throat and begins to squeeze.

 _Captain,_ he hears and feels. The thrum of Spock's voice goes down to his toes. _Captain, you are impaired by narcotics. We are prisoners and require your assistance to escape._

His grip loosens and he slides his hands up Spock's throat to his thick black hair. Spock's hair is silky and glorious to touch. He can hear Spock, think Spock thinking his thoughts inside his head but there's no room for anything Kirk can think so he gives up to nuzzle against Spock's face and tastes coppery kisses from his warm mouth.

 _Captain, we must escape. Please._

Kirk's head hurts suddenly, a vicious headache right behind his eyes. He lets go of Spock and staggers back, onto his haunches. He grinds his fists against his eyes, tugs on his hair. He's trying to think, there's something he has to think about. It's important. He starts to keen, terrified that he cannot remember.

The priestess comes over. She's tall and very beautiful, her headdress chiming with hundreds of little bells when she leans down to speak to him. "There are three," she tells him. "One by knife, one by stone and one by hand."

And then he understands, and it's so beautiful, such a perfect solution that Kirk's headache vanishes as he breaks the priestess' neck. The knife he throws and at the other side of the hall, the Councillor falls on his knees, gurgling through his blood.

The stone is fletched to two uneven points, and fits well enough in his hand. He manages one strong blow, but on the second his hand slips and he falls on his knees. His vision is blurring, but he still manages to find the rock with his hands, to cradle it and smash his head down again before he blacks out.

When he wakes up after surgery, Bones is so angry he can't even yell at Kirk. Uhura comes by and sings quietly to him as he goes in and out of fevers.

Spock is Acting Captain for thirty-eight days. When he returns the bridge to Kirk, he pauses at the chair and places two fingers against the back of Kirk's hand. "Captain," he says gravely. "The bridge is yours."

 **5\. New Vulcan**

  
He dies so Uhura lives. It's not a bad bargain, because he loves Spock and Spock loves Uhura, so this is the best thing he can do with his life.

His blood is roaring and he can't think. He's full of heat, languorous sun-warmed heat and he feels known, not forgotten. He'll die, and it will all be okay. It'll be okay, he whispers and hands stroke his hair back from his forehead, fingers touch him lightly and a dry mouth presses against his skin, over and over.

"Jim," says Uhura. "Oh Jim," and she is cool and smooth against his body, like well water and mint-toothpaste kisses. He turns to her, but it's not enough to slake his thirst.

Nothing can anymore. He shudders and the release is swallowed up by the burning need for more.

"He's coming back," she whispers. "Come back with me, please, oh please!"

"Someone has to stay or he'll die," he says and he fumbles at her wrist, finds the communicator and manages "Energize." He fades out to the sparkle of Uhura transporting away.

He wakes to heat, Spock's hand leaving sparks where it touches Jim's body. The question is wordless, a scream of rage at Uhura's escape. Jim arcs at the touches, shuddering and taut with desire.

Then it is death, little deaths of Spock's hands at his throat, at his temples, the ripping in and out of his mind and body. He tastes blood and sweat, iron and copper and salt and sex as Spock revenges himself on Kirk.

The sand of the cave floor mixes with his blood to slurry. His skin burns and he can't tell if it's the heat of blood fever or the chill of shock setting in. It's the sweet sharpness of an orgasm turned to nothing but pain and hurts so much more than he thought it would.

He breathes; he doesn't.

Above him, over him, Spock shudders and collapses. His breath comes in harsh rasps.

There is a wet, thick sound; then nothing as the transporter shimmers and the cave empties.

  
Stasis, Kirk reassures the new cadets on the Enterprise, is like going for an afternoon nap. Nothing to it, and Bones is the best doctor in Starfleet, so relax and just don't get your brainpan completely smashed.

He wakes up screaming and Bones sedates him. This happens a couple of times and finally Bones anesthetizes his throat and lets him just scream it out.

Uhura comes to visit. Her skin is now flawless and unbruised. There has been no permanent damage, she reassures him. She has filled out the appropriate paperwork and returned to duty.

Kirk asks if she'll give him a sponge bath and she tells him what she can do with his catheter.

Bones fiddles around with the controls and finally tells Kirk that Spock hasn't left his quarters since they returned. Sulu and Uhura have the bridge, which would be terrifying if they weren't in a boring-ass orbit around an uninhabited planet. Perfect for kidnapping Starfleet officers and having your wicked way with them, but pretty boring for anything else. It's good practice for Sulu and Uhura, so Kirk forgets about that and concentrates on his first officer sulking.

He can't exactly walk yet so he guilts Spock to come up to the sickbay by getting one of the junior nurses to take a message of him looking stoic with a single tear falling, etcetera etcetera.

Spock comes into sickbay and begins reciting division reports. Kirk listens because he has been in stasis for a week after all, and Spock's voice makes his body hum in response far better than scrolling through a stack of datapadds.

"I am considering Kohlinar," Spock says suddenly.

Kirk snorts. "After what I just did? I better get champagne and Orion silk bedsheets in seven years, Spock." He thinks about it. "And I want a necklace. Something with diamonds that I can wear with my dress uniform."

"Diamonds," Spock says flatly.

"I'm not fussy," Kirk says magnanimously. "They say it should be three credit cycles, but something simple would suit me."

"I attacked you, raped you repeatedly and killed you," Spock points out.

"You could set them in latinum," Kirk suggests.

Spock tenses, about to leave. Kirk grabs Spock's wrist, and instantly he stills. "Fuck it," Kirk says. "You saw inside my head, right? You saw who I am. You think this, you think Pon Farr is going to fuck me up worse?"

He turns Spock's hand over and slides his palm across, laces their fingers together. Spock is motionless, but his pulse flutters.

"You hurt Uhura before I got there?" he asks.

"No," Spock says. "The sedatives Doctor McCoy administered prior to my unauthorised departure were effective."

"Then shut the fuck up and buy me some diamonds. Buy her some earrings if you really want to."

Spock bends his fingers slightly, runs his thumb across Kirk's knuckles. "I do not wish," he says after a while, "to be your death."

"Alright," Kirk says. "I'm tired of dying anyway."

Bones kicks up a storm when he comes by later and sees them sleeping in the stasis bed, but Kirk manages to look pitiful, and Bones contents himself with telling Spock he's contracted about five versions of space syphilis by sleeping with James T. Kirk. He tosses a blanket at them, futzes around with the monitors and then glares at them before stomping out.

Spock cards his hair, running his thumb against the curve of Kirk's ear.

"My brother used to do that," Kirk says sleepily. "When I was little."

Spock's hand stills and then continues. "Sleep," he says. "I will be here when you wake up, Jim."


End file.
